


musical therapy  ♪♩

by orphan_account



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Seven's real name is used, gender neutral MC/Reader, i can only write 4 mystic messenger when i'm suffering, look up self indulgent and this fic will come up in the dictionary, my curse, playing in bed but not like PLAYING in bed u know what i mean?, the usual, they r dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 02:13:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12355335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Do you know this song?" you ask, feeling amused."I know all of them," he informs you. "You're always listening to music, so I thought I should get familiar with your favorites-- one complaint, though?""Be brutal.""Do you really need fifteen different variations of the Cup song?"





	musical therapy  ♪♩

**Author's Note:**

> More self indulgent fluff bc bad headspace is bad. If anyone else is just Going Thru it rn, I hope it helps even a little (ಥ﹏ಥ)(ಥ﹏ಥ)(ಥ﹏ಥ) on a side note, am I gonna get my door kicked in for using the word iPod, like is Apple gonna take a hit out on me bc honestly at this point I'm ready

The music is blaring loudly enough that your eardrums buzz uncomfortably through it and your chest is aching terribly. 

It's not enough--not nearly, but what else is there? 

Swallowing the bitter taste gathering beneath your tongue, you scroll through your gloomiest playlist haplessly. Too sad, too angry, too soft, too _much -- ah, there it is._ This is the one, you decide, turning over onto your stomach and burying your face into your pillow. You are sure you're quite a sight to behold -- hood pulled up and over your matted hair, red-puffy eyed, your hoodie's sleeves are damp from wiping at your stinging eyes... Good thing you're left to mope on your own in blissful (and equal parts torturous) solitude. 

As the singer begins belting their heart out, you feel your own constrict painfully. 

_Why._

You just have to wonder: _Why?_  Why are you like this? Why does it always inevitably come down to you burying your head in a pillow and screaming until the ache in your chest dulls enough to become bearable? 

A phantom voice echoes in the back of your mind; 

_Useless._

_(It could belong to any number of people, you've heard the word tossed about so frequently.)_

And you truly _do_ feel useless, and the word still stings like a swift kick to the gut. 

"Stop," you mutter to yourself lowly, turning once more. The singer in your ear begins cooing softly and it's simultaneously too much and not enough, so you thumb at your iPod, glowering at the brightness of its screen piercing through the dark room, before deciding on one with a slightly faster tempo. The sound of this one drowns out your incessant hiccuping, at least. You roll onto your back, eyes staring up at the black ceiling, only lit by the little moonlight pooling in through the window. 

You are a special kind of mess.

Snuggling further into your (temporarily stolen) hoodie, eager for warmth or at least anything but the frigid coolness, you let out a tiny sigh. 

You aren't sure when, or how, but you fall asleep for a time -- you must -- because the next thing you know, the lights are being flashed on, and you aren't entirely certain of your surroundings at all. You narrow your eyes, letting out a drawn out groan and there's the sound of tinkling, apologetic laughter. "I'm sorry," a familiar voice soothes, and the lights instantly dim. "Did I wake you up?" 

"Yes," you answer without hesitation. Your voice sounds sort of gross from disuse, and _probably_ the excessive crying. It brings a grimace to your face that you hide expertly behind a sleeve. Seven gives you the kind of smile that plainly states you haven't gotten away with it exactly. "Are you," you swallow. Wow, had you been crying that hard? You pull the earbuds from your ears, shaking your head a little at just how disorientated you actually are. "Are you finished with work?" 

"Yup, yup," your boyfriend replies simply, shrugging off his own sweatshirt and tossing it to the floor. Considering this room is now your _shared_ space, you briefly think of telling him to pick it up and hang it in the closet but... not worth the effort. Besides, you're pretty okay with messes. You can deal. When he flops onto the bed, your side rises a little, causing you to make a face at him. "How's my favorite babe?" he asks, leaning up on his elbows, chin on hands, like this is some sort of sleepover and he's about to start up a round of truth or dare. You suppose it's not entirely inaccurate; living with Saeyoung is sort of like one big endless sleepover with your very best friend.  

"I don't know. Have you checked the garage?" 

"Funny," he says, however his careful-- suddenly serious--observation of you seems to say it's anything but. His voice softens, lowers. "Have you been crying?" 

"I've been sleeping." 

"Did you have a bad dream?" 

"Bad _day_ ," you correct hesitantly. "Don't... don't ask what's wrong, because I don't know, you know?" 

He understands at once because of course he does. "Right," he nods solemnly, leaning in closer and pressing a firm kiss to your forehead. "Do you want to talk?" 

"Not really." Guilt seeps into your gut at the admission, though you know it's silly. "Do you?" 

"Not really," he echoes, smiling, before his eyes flicker to your haphazardly discarded iPod. "Oooh. What's this?" He grabs it and begins skimming through it, absent-mindedly humming to himself, seemingly unaware that just the sound of his voice is enough to put you at ease once more. You shut your eyes for a minute just listening. You feel rustling beside you, and pry one eye open to find that Seven is now lying right beside you. "Here," he offers you one earbud, and you take it without second thought and put it in your ear. 

He takes the other and does the same. 

It's barely a minute into the playlist when you hear him hum along to the song-- _offkey_ , but still adorable. 

"Do you know this song?" you ask, feeling amused. 

"I know all of them," Saeyoung informs you. "You're always listening to music, so I thought I should get familiar with your favorites-- one complaint, though?"

"Be brutal." 

"Do you really need fifteen different variations of the Cup song?" 

"Covers are a form of art," you laugh, and it sounds strange to your own ears after all this time. 

"But...  _Cup song_?" 

"Leave me alone," you kick at his ankle lightly, only to find your own leg trapped by his swinging over in retaliation. "Oh, _mature_." You twist your body, contorting it so you are as far away as the bed will actually allow, and kick your other leg to push his off only to find yourself trapped again.   
  
Saeyoung chuckles boisterously, "It's as though you're forgetting who you're trying to outplay?" 

A different approach then.

In all your hasty movement, you truly and honestly do not mean to aim for his crotch-- and yet. " _OOOF_ ," and a few expletives of varying severity and language escape in a hiss through his lips and you have to fight back the laughter that threatens to spill out. 

"I'm sorry, honey," you tell him sweetly, now grateful for full use of your legs. You stretch a little while your boyfriend recovers with a comically wounded expression on his face. "Really, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry." 

"It's fine," he grumbles, but you can tell by the glint in his eye that he's not truly angry or hurt-- and this is _far_ from over. The song is over, and another, much less mellow one begins to play. Saeyoung takes your arm, slowly eying you for approval and when you nod questioningly, he begins attempting to play it as a guitar; attempting to match it to the strings pulled in the song. The cynical part of you wants to roll your eyes at his predictable silliness, but the sentimental -- and currently very emotionally vulnerable part of you -- wants to memorize the feeling of his fingers gently running along your skin forever. When he begins mouthing the lyrics, you're gone.

"You are _such_ a dork." 

His lip syncing just grows more dramatic and theatrical with every remark you make, every face you make at him. Eventually, you give in, finding it much more pleasant to just sit back and watch the most likely probable love of your life make a fool of himself. Deep down you know that the image of your tear-stained cheeks has not left him and that Saeyoung cares more deeply than he ever lets on -- it's a big part of why you love him so much, probably. He just gets you in ways that no one else ever will. It's like you're running on the same wavelength whereas the rest of the world is full of dissonance, and tone-deafness. Or maybe you two are the tone-deaf ones? It doesn't matter. You're the same. 

As your introspection comes to a bittersweet end, so does the song. Saeyoung bows, awaiting proper recognition, and you deliver. You even get on your knees; your attempt at a standing ovation without the actual _standing_ part. 

"Thank you, thank you~"

"No," you say, cupping his cheeks with both your hands. His molten-gold eyes peer into yours, searching. Whatever he's looking for, he seems to find it, because a gigantic smile overtakes his entire face and he is so beautiful. "Thank _you_."  

 

**Author's Note:**

> realistically this is absolutely not how ~Moods~ are dealt with (nor are they nearly this swift+fleeting) but u know whaT? if i want to soothe my dramatic ass tantrums w/ fictional boys serenading me how are u gonna stop me??? in fact why don't u sit down and join me???? there's room at this miserable table for plenty ┬─┬ノ( º _ ºノ)


End file.
